The Grey Age

There’d once been a golden age, Pearson thought. What would this one be called? He reflected on the meaning of different colours. Green? There wasn’t a speck of it left. The blue age? If blue meant hope, there was certainly no more of that. The purple age? The last royalty had left its throne years ago. Red denoted war. Well there was no more real war, though a few battles still raged wearily in the bombed out husk that had once been earth.

Grey. It was the colour of the future and the colour of the sky, even at mid-day. “The grey age,” Pearson said softly, testing it out.

“No no. Not the grey age. The white age.” A clear, bell like voice spoke, and Pearson turned around, searching for it. Nothing was visible through the ashy haze. “Look up,” the voice commanded, and he did. A star hung above, thrillingly bright, so close Pearson put up his hand and tried to feel it. “Not yet,” the voice said. “But soon. This star is on a trajectory with that of earth. Day after tomorrow they will meet.”

Pearson shook his head. “Then this world will be destroyed. And perhaps that will be for the best.”

“Wrong. There will be no collision. The star will pass harmlessly, but its light will sweep earth, ridding it of all hate, even the memory of hate. Green will come back to the trees, blue to the sky. Hands will reach out in love, never again in war. It will be the age of peace. The white age.”

Pearson waited a few minutes, but the voice did not speak again. He wondered what it had been. A mocking, lying demon or a truth-telling angel? Was there really a star or was it an illusion? Would it collide with earth, annihilating everything? Or would it rid the planet of its dark past, creating a future of hope and peace? A white age.

The light seemed to hang closer. Pearson put up his hand. This time he almost touched it. And he almost knew the answer.